


Let Me Mend Your Broken Wings

by itstheaqueen



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:42:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itstheaqueen/pseuds/itstheaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana's eyes were two black spheres: they absorbed everything and not let anything slip away. Not that Brittany wanted to know more. She hadn’t liked what she had seen on the surface, then she doubted that what lurked in depth could please her (inspired to the Hush, Hush saga by Becca Fitzpatrick).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Biology

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there anybody! This is my first fic here! I call this ‘my baby’, since I care about it so much you have no idea. I don’t know if you have read the wonderful book "Hush, Hush". Anyone who has not done yet, do it, because it’s an absolute masterpiece!  
> However this Brittana long is my humble tribute to the writer of the book, let’s say that this is the most romantic way to see it.  
> The prologue is a brief glimpse of the two protagonists. In fact, the book itself is descriptive, yes, but it is in first person, I wanted to turn it into third, highlighting both Brittany that Santana; I hope I’ve have done it right.  
> Thank you for reading of favorite / following this if you do.  
> The wonderful poster that was created by RenoLover / EdyFerrone who is also translating this story from Italian to English!  
> Leave me a comment to let me know if you like this!

For if God

did not have pity for the angels

who did evil,

but sent them down

into hell,

to be kept in chains of eternal night till they were judged;

2 Peter 2:4

_Loire Valley_ _, France._ _November 1565_ _._

When the storm broke, Noah had just invited the daughter of a pastor under the grassy bank of the Loire. They had to retreat to the gate of the boy’s property; otherwise they would get sick. The girl clutched to his companion’s chest, so that he could hold her hard, as if to protect her. The fence was close, so close that they both breathed a sigh of relief, as the rain kept pouring down violently, preventing the view of what is before them.  
   
Noah looked up suddenly to his left, noticing something moving snappy toward that side. A curvy shape presented itself before his eyes, now filled with fear. He looked to his right, but his companion had disappeared.  
   
That figure had neck, legs and arms totally uncovered making him guess that it had a shape similar to a human being, a woman in particularly.  
   
The stranger stopped in front of him with wet hair that was thrown violently on the face, creating an even denser aura of mystery around her.  
   
“Who goes there?” The boy said, putting his hand on his sword, carefully deposited in its sheath.  
   
The girl smiled a grin that was barely perceptible because of the long hair covering her wet face.  
   
“Don’t make fun of the Duke of Langeais,” he warned his interlocutor, “I asked your name, tell me.”  
   
“Duke?” The girl leaned against the tree next to her. “Or bastard?”  
   
Noah finally drew his sword. “Take your words back! My father was the Duke of Langeais. And now I am the Duke!” He screamed, cursing because the answer seemed childish and clumsy.  
   
The girl shook her head. “Your father wasn’t the old Duke.”  
   
That insinuation made blood boil in his veins, so he raised his sword and asked: “And what about your father?” He didn’t know yet the names of all his vassals, but he was learning. The girl’s last name would have stuck into his mind. “I will ask you once again: who are you?”  
   
Suddenly, the girl took a few steps toward him, not caring at all that the son of the Duke could recognize her or not. By now her neck was a few inches from Noah’s sword, but it didn’t take long: with a decisive, but not too violent gesture, she moved the tip of his sword, and said to him: “I am the devil’s servant.”  
   
Noah frowned.  
   
“You're crazy.” He replied through gritted teeth, evidently frightened. “Get out of my sight.”  
   
A minimum step forward, or some other movement, and he wouldn’t have waited another second to hit her with his sword.  
   
And suddenly the ground under Noah’s feet began to shake violently. Gold and red flames exploded behind his eyelids. He found herself bent over, with nails embedded in his thighs, trying to make sense of what was going on.  
   
His mind was reeling, as if he had lost control.  
   
The mysterious girl bent down so she could look into his eyes.  
   
“Listen to me carefully. I need something and I'm not leaving until I got it. Do you understand?” She said, leaning toward him and touching his chin, squeezing it between her index and thumb.  
   
Noah gritted his teeth and shook his head to declare his identity, his refusal. He would have gladly slapped her, but he couldn’t.  
   
He was trapped in the grip of these strange events.  
   
“You have to swear loyalty.” The girl said, standing up. “Get on your knees and kiss my feet.”  
   
Noah wanted to laugh, but his throat didn’t respond to the command, while his right knee began to bend, as if he was hit from behind, although there was no one behind him, and suddenly he found himself in the mud. He rolled on his side, shaken by retching.  
   
“Swear.” The girl repeated.  
   
The unbearable heat went up from the Noah’s hands to his neck. He had to use all his strength just to be able to clench his fists. He laughed of himself, but there was no joy in his laughter. He had no idea how she could, but he was sure that girl was making him feel weak, sick.  
   
And he couldn’t revolt to it.  
   
So he decided to say what he had to, but in his heart he swore that he would kill that girl sooner or later.  
   
“Lady, I swear loyalty.” Noah hissed.  
   
The girl held out her hand, helping him up. “Come here at the beginning of the month of Cheshvan. In the days between the new moon and the full moon, I will need your services.”  
   
“Two weeks?” Noah was trembling in fear and anger. “I am the Duke of Langeais.”  
   
“You're a Nephilim.” The girl sprawled a naughty smile.  
   
Noah had a curse on his lips, but he decided to swallow it down. “What did you say?” He asked in an icy tone full of poison instead.  
   
“You belong to the biblical race of Nephilims. Your real father was a fallen angel. You’re only half a mortal.” The girl’s dark eyes claimed the gaze of his interlocutor, not interrupting the iced look.  
   
From one corner of Noah’s hidden mind the voice of his instructor resurfaced, reading the Bible and explaining the breed born from the union between the fallen angels and mortal women. A frightening and powerful race. Noah was shaken by a chill, which was not only due to disgust. “Who are you?”  
   
In response, she turned and walked away. Noah wanted to follow her, but failed to order his legs to move. But while kneeling on the ground and bleary-eyed from the drops of rain, he could see two large scars on the girl’s half-covered back.  
   
From what he could see, they formed an inverted V.  
   
“You're a ... fallen angel?” He screams. “Your wings have been torn, right?”  
   
The girl, angel or whoever she was, didn’t turn, but Noah didn’t need any confirmations. “This duty I owe you.” He shouted. “I demand to know what it is!”  
   
In the humid air of the cemetery, a laugh resounded, while the curvaceous figure receded, becoming more and more blurred.  
   
/   
   
 _Lima, Ohio. April 2012._  
   
She enters the biology classroom and gasps. Attached someway to the blackboard, there are a Barbie and a Ken. Their arms are crossed so that their hands are touching, and they’re naked except for fake leaves placed at strategic points. Above their heads, written in bold pink, hangs: "WELCOME TO HUMAN REPRODUCTION (SEX)."  
   
Next to her, Quinn Fabray whispers: ”That's why school prohibits the use of cameras: a photo  like this  on the school magazine would be enough to convince the Ministry of Education to cut biology off. And that would make this time available for something really productive, like taking private lessons from pretty boys and aristocrats.”  
   
It’s her recurring idea, she loves the male gender, especially if they’re tall, blond or black. It really deosn’t matter, the important thing is that they have some nice interesting muscles.  
   
“You're strange, Quinn. I thought you’ve been waiting for this course since the beginning of the semester.” The blue-eyed blonde girl answers.  
   
Quinn looks down: “This lessons can’t teach me anything I don’t know already, Britt.”  
   
“What? Weren’t you a virgin?” She asks her best friend.  
   
“Keep your voice down." Quinn says worried, winking at Brittany a second before the bell rings, sending them all to their seats, the two girls next to each other.  
   
Coach Sylvester enters overwhelmingly in the classroom: “Places everyone, you idiots.” She breaks in.  
   
She considers the teaching of biology class a marginal activity if compared to her work as coach of the Cheerios, and they all know it.  
   
“You guys may haven’t noticed that sex is more than a 15 minutes quickie in the back seat of the car. In fact, it’s science. And what’s science?”  
   
“Pure boredom.” Someone shouts from the back of the classroom.  
   
“The only subject I’m not a total crap in.” Someone else adds.  
   
The eyes of the coach focus on the first line. “Brittany?”  
   
“The study of something.” She answers, interested in the words of her coach. In fact, if it weren’t for all the jokes in the background, the lesson would even be interesting.  
   
The coach nods, smiling, because she’s felt the slight interest of her student. “What else?”  
   
“The knowledge gained through experimentation and observation.” Perfect, she has given an elaborate answer. Maybe even too much.  
   
“Say it with your own words.” Ms. Sylvester admonishes.  
   
Brittany touches her upper lip with the tip of her tongue and tries an alternative to her words, the ones spoken earlier. “Science is an investigation.”  
   
“Science is an investigation.” The coach repeats, rubbing her hands. “Science transforms us all into spies.”  
   
This way, it almost sounds funny, but Brittany has spent enough time in the coach’s class not to delude herself. “A good investigation takes a lot of practice.” She continues.  
   
“Sex takes a lot of practice too.” Someone comments again from the back of the classroom. There are some giggles, but they’re isolated because Ms. Sylvester has already pointed her warningly finger against the boy who has spoken.  
   
“That won’t be part of your homework today.” She answers, then changes the subject. “Brittany, you've been sitting next to Quinn since the beginning of the year.  
   
Brittany nods, even though she has a bad feeling about this.  
   
“And both work for the school newspaper.” Brittany nods again. “I bet you know everything about each other.”  
   
Quinn kicks Brittany slightly. Pierce knows exactly what her friend is thinking: their teacher has not the faintest idea on what they know about each other. And it’s not about secrets buried in the pages of their diaries. Quinn and Brittany are to be considered twins, _different_ twins.  
   
Then the coach turns to the whole class: “In fact, I'm sure each of you knows a lot about the person who’s sitting next to you. And that’s a reason that made you choose these places, right? It’s about custom. Unfortunately, the best detectives aren’t into custom. It makes the investigative instinct lazy. That is why, today, we’re going to change your seats.”  
   
Brittany opens her mouth to complain, but Quinn is faster. “What's the point in that? We’re in April, we’re almost at the end of the school year. You can’t do such a thing right now.”  
   
Sue Sylvester smiles. “I can even do this on the last day of the semester. And if you don’t pass my course, next year you'll find yourself back here, where things like this are going to happen again, and again, and again.”  
   
Quinn glares at her. She’s famous for this look, so sharp that you can almost hear her hiss.  
   
Apparently immune to Quinn’s look, the coach explains to them what she has in mind:  
   
“All those sitting on the left side of the bench, _your_ left, jump to the place in front of you. Those in the front row - yes, you too Quinn - get to move to the last.”  
   
Brittany greets Quinn with a nod as she pulls firmly the notebook into her bag and zip-closes it. Then she turns slowly, inspecting the room. She knows the names of all his classmates, except for one. The girl who has moved. The coach never calls her and she never complains about it.  
   
She sits idly at the bank behind her, her dark eyes focused straight ahead as usual. For a moment, the blonde struggles to believe she has always been sitting there, day after day, staring into empty spaces. For sure, she’s thinking about something, but her instinct tells her that she shouldn’t know _what_ it is.  
   
The girl puts her biology book on the bank and slides on what has been Quinn’s chair.  
   
Brittany smiles. “Hi, I'm Brittany.”  
   
The look of her new mate moves, studying her from side to side, and the corners of her lips lift. Brittany’s heart skips a beat. And in that fear, a feeling of sadness slips on her like a cold shadow.  
   
The next instant the feeling is gone, and girl who has raven-hair gathered back by a purple headband continues to observe her and her smile’s no longer an amused smile, but a smile that promises troubles.  
   
Brittany focuses on the blackboard. Barbie and Ken stare back at her eyes, but strangely they seem cheerful.  
   
“Human reproduction can be a thorny issue ...” The coach says.  
   
“Ouch.” A chorus of students pulls out. The same students who had moved a row back, thanks to the coach’s stupid idea.  
   
“It requires maturity. And as for all the sciences, the best method is to investigate. During the rest of this lesson, let’s put this into to practice trying to find out as much as possible about your new mate. Tomorrow you’ll bring a report with whatever you’ve found out and, believe me, I will check that it corresponds to the truth. This is biology, not literature, so don’t romanticize the answers. I want to see a real collaboration and a true team effort.” And in the sentence there’s the implicit warning not to dare to do otherwise.  
   
Brittany stays still. The ball is in her new mate’s court. Smiling at her hasn’t proved to be a good move.  
   
She wrinkles her nose, trying to figure out what he smell reminds her of. It’s not cigarettes, it’s something more intense and nauseating. Cigars maybe.  
   
“What are you writing?” Britt asks, noticing that the girl has started writing something on the paper that it’s no longer white as it was before.  
   
“She speaks my language.” The mysterious girl says as she writes these words, with a simple hand movement, smooth and lazy at the same time.  
   
Brittany leans forward, trying to read the rest of her list, but the girl immediately covers the paper, folding it in two halves.  
   
“What did you write?” She repeats.  
   
The dark-haired girl reaches out to take Pierce’s white paper, sliding it toward herself, and then crumpling it; and before Brittany can complain, she tosses it in the trash basket behind the desk.  
   
Score.  
   
Brittany stares at the basket for a moment, half shocked and half angry. Then she flips her notebook open to the first blank page and, pencil in her hand, she asks: “What's your name?”  
   
She looks up in time to catch another cold stare. It seems like it to wants to warn her that the girl isn’t going to tolerate any more questions about her.  
   
“ What’s … your name?” She repeats though, hoping that the hesitant tone in her voice is just imagination.  
   
“Call me Santana. I'm serious. _Call me._ ” She says with a wink, so Brittany is convinced that she wants to tease her.  
   
“What do you do in your spare time?” She asks, turning her gaze back on the notebook.  
   
“I have no spare time.”  
   
“Look, I suppose that for this task will cost us a grade, so … do me a favor?” Britt asks, sounding resigned already, even though they had spoken little.  
   
Santana leans back in her chair, her hands dangling down toward the floor. “What kind of favor?”  
   
Brittany is sure it’s an innuendo or something, then she tries desperately to cling to some excuse to change the subject.  
   
“Spare time …” Santana repeats thoughtfully. “I take photos.”  
   
Then Britt writes _'snapshot'_ on the paper.  
   
“I haven’t finished yet - she says - I have a nice collection by an editor of the school newspaper, which aspires to be a dancer, but doesn’t know if she is going to succeed, so she’s decided to focus on prestigious universities such as Stanford, Yale and ... what is that other large university that starts with H?        
   
Brittany stares at her for a moment, shocked by how damned much she knows about her.  
   
She wants to know how she knows these things.  
   
And she wants to know it now.  
   
“Eventually you won’t go to any of these three.” She just says.  
   
“Really?” Britt asks without even thinking.  
   
Santana hooks the bottom of her chair with her fingers and pulls Brittany closer to her. Pierce is evidently undecided whether to shift away fast and show herself scared, or to ignore her and pretend to be bored.  
   
She chooses the second option.  
   
“Even if you would get the best results in all universities, you’d snub the stereotype of success. You point to a different success, perhaps as a dancer. And you have three major flaws.” Santana says, shifting her gaze from Britt’s blue ones directly to the wall in front of them.  
   
“And what are these flaws, if I may?” Brittany asks, beginning to be too bothered by the mysterious behavior of her new companion.  
   
“Number one: you keep your life on a leash.” She says, scoring the number one on her hand. “Number two: you don’t trust no one and three, you spit judgments.” She explains, with a smile on her face, as if to reproach the fact that her life is relatively boring.  
   
Okay, well, Brittany is shocked by these words, because even though they are flaws, they are completely true. She has described her and the bad thing is that the dancer can’t understand how she knows these things, they’re so ... intimate.  
   
“Do you sleep naked?” Her thoughts are interrupted by the embarrassing question, which forces her almost to let her jaw drop.  
   
“You're the last person to whom I’d say that.” She answers quickly.  
   
“Have you ever done anything illegal?” She just asks some questions in bursts, so that she can escape her questions.  
   
“Nope.” Brittany lies. She knows that occasionally exceeding the speed limit doesn’t apply. Not with her. “Why don’t you ask normal questions? Like ... My favorite type of music?”  
   
“I don’t ask what I can guess.” She answers simply, lowering her head and avoiding eye contact.  
   
“You don’t know my favorite music.” Actually, Brittany has said it to convince herself that she _can’t_ do it, it would be too much.  
   
“Baroque. Anything about you is all order and control. I bet you played the cello in the school band, but then you decided to devote yourself entirely to dance.”  
   
“You’re wrong.” Another lie. But this time Brittany feels a chill down her spine. Who’s this girl?  
   
“What's that?” Santana suddenly asks, giving it a tap with the pen inside of her wrist. Instinctively, Brittany pulls away.  
   
“A birthmark.” Brittany replies hastily.  
   
“It looks like a scar. Have you tried to kill yourself?” And after this question, their eyes meet for more than five seconds, and Brittany could tell that the girl is just having fun with provoking her. “Are your parents married or divorced?”  
   
“I live with my mom.” Once again Brittany tries not to dwell on unnecessary explanations.  
   
“Where is your dad?” Santana asks curious, though obviously in her eyes there’s a hint of amusement.  
   
“He’s dead.” She replies, looking down.  
   
“How?” Santana asks, overwhelmed by a wave of evident displeasure.  
   
“Killed. But these are private matters, if you don’t mind.”  
   
There’s a moment of silence and Santana’s look seems to soften. “It must be hard.” Her voice anticipates the sound of the bell, which pushes her to get up and cross the door, leaving Brittany strange inside and totally missing the object of the lesson.  
   
“Hey!” Brittany shouts. “I haven’t written anything about you!” She actually points out that her paper is still blank.  
   
Santana turns around, come back and takes her hand gently, and then picks up a pen from the pocket of her bag to write her phone number on the palm of Brittany’s hand.  
   
Brittany smiles. A smile that emphasizes how much of a fool Santana is to her right now.  
   
“I won’t call you!” She says as Santana walks away, showing her back to her and making a slight gesture with her hand. “I'm serious!”  
   
 


	2. Shiver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana's eyes were two black spheres: they absorbed everything and not let anything slip away. Not that Brittany wanted to know more. She hadn’t liked what she had seen on the surface, then she doubted that what lurked in depth could please her (inspired to the Hush, Hush saga by Becca Fitzpatrick).

Chapter 2 Shiver

"Have you finished the article for tomorrow?" It’s Quinn. She stops behind Brittany and writes some notes on the notebook that she always carries around. "It’s about the injustice of the seating arrangement in the classrooms. I got chaired to a girl who told me that she has just finished her treatment for head parasites." She says, allowing herself to pass her slender fingers through her hair blonde who runs over her back.

"My new mate," Brittany says, pointing down the corridor in the direction of Santana, who’s walking proud, too self-confident.

"The girl who couldn't pass last year so end up getting sent here? I don't think she's ever studied and I bet she's not going to do it now." Quinn gives her a knowing look, "Although the third round has some sort of charm."

"She makes me shudder," Brittany replies, not even noticing what Quinn has actually said. "She knows what kind of music I listen to. Without the slightest clue, she’s just said baroque." She continues, trying to imitate Santana’s voice, low and seductive.

She doesn’t succeed at it though.

"Maybe she just guessed and got lucky." Quinn tries to guess, shrugging, while they both sit on the bank which belonged to both before Sue Sylvester changed everything.

"She knew ... other things," Brittany says then, looking down, staying with her eyes fixed.

"For example?" Quinn asks curious, as she adjusts her shirt to make it fit better to the body.

She has said more than she should have known. "For example how to make me nervous," Brittany sighs, "I'm going to tell the coach that I want my old spot." She says, coming down from the bank.

"Just sit, your rebellion might be an idea for my next article: 'sophomore rebels.'" Or, better yet: 'Checkmate to the new provision' ... Hmmm, I like it."

At the end of the day, however, that one that's got checkmated was Brittany. The coach hadn't accepted her reclaim, and that means she's going to have to put up with Santana all the time.

/

Brittany and her mother live at the bounds of Lima, on a drafty farm of the 18th century. It’s the only house on North Street and the house nearest to it is about a kilometer away.

Sometimes Brittany wonders if those who have built the house have realized the fact that, among the parcels of land available, they have chosen to place it at the center of a mysterious weather conditions that seems to suck up all the fog in the region to spit it in their garden.

Brittany spends the night perched on one of the stools in the kitchen, doing her algebra homework; that’s too hard for her. So she just scribbles here and there with crayons, choosing only the simplest exercises, the ones that even Emma could safely do, of course replacing her in the study.

Her mother works for Hugo Renaldi's Auction House; she coordinates antique auctions on the East Coast and this week she's in New York. Her work leads her to travel a lot and she always pays Emma to stay with her daughter, watch over her and keep her company, as well as to clean and tidy up the house.

"How was school?" Emma asks, with a slight southern accent, while she’s leaned on the sink, intent to rub the pan to remove the remains of lasagna that she has cooked.

"I have a new classmate in biology," she says, lowering her head and trying to focus on the algebra book, in vain.

"It is good or bad thing?" the maid naively asks, adjusting her red hair that has fallen before her eyes.

"I was sitting next to Quinn before." Brittany says, looking down and puffing.

Then Emma vents on the pan. "Well, then it's very bad," she says rubbing it so hard it starts bobbing their upper arm.

Brittany nods.

"Tell me about this new girl," Emma says, after several minutes of silence. She has to know what’s making her little girl worry.

"She's quite tall, brown-haired and irritating." Also opaque in a way that makes her shiver. Santana's eyes are two black spheres: they absorb everything and release nothing. Not that Brittany wants to know more. What she hasn’t liked what she had seen on the surface, then she doubts she could like what’s hiding inside.

Too bad that isn’t entirely true, she’d liked a lot of what she has seen. Long and dry muscles of her arms, slightly masculine shoulders, cheerful and seductive smile.

She’s literally in conflict with herself, because she is trying to ignore something that she actually finds irresistible.

At 9, Emma finishes her shift. She goes out and locks, as usual. Brittany turns on and off the lights in the porch twice: the greeting comes through the sea of fog, because Emma replies with a beep into her car.

Now she’s alone.

Brittany runs back through the feelings that make her nervous.

She isn’t hungry.

She isn’t tired.

In fact she doesn’t even feel too lonely.

She’s just a bit nervous because of the science homework. She had told Santana that she wasn’t going to call and up to six hours before she really thought that. But now, she’s thinking about the fact that she doesn’t want to take a bad grade.

Biology is the subject that gives her the most problems. Her grades sway dangerously (though not only in biology) which, according to her, is the difference between a future full scholarship and a partial coverage scholarship.

She goes to her room to pick up the phone and looks at her hand to see what is left of the seven numbers that Santana had written. In the end, she hopes that Santana will pick up. If she doesn’t, Brittany could try and talk to the coach about seating arrangement.

She dials the number confidently.

Santana answers on the third ring. "What?"

Brittany replies dryly, "I wanted to know if I can meet you tonight. I know you said you were busy, but ... "

"Brittany," Santana says her name as if she finds it funny, sort of a joke. "I didn’t think you'd call, really."

Brittany hates to go back on her word and she hates the fact that Santana emphasizing it. "So, can I see you or not?" She opens her mouth hoping that something clever comes out of it.

“It looks like I can’t right now.” Santana answers.

“You can’t or you don’t want to?” Brittany asks arching her eyebrow and trying to keep the anger that’s making her fingers tickle. She starts fidgeting with her hands.

“I’m playing billiards.” Her voice seems to hide a smile. “And this is a very important match too.”

From the noises in the background, Brittany understands that she isn’t lying, at least not about the existence of a match. She doesn’t know if it’s truly important though and according to her, it can’t be more important than their assignment. 

“Where are you?” She suddenly asks, as if she wants to keep talking.

“In the back of the Breadstix, it might not be your sort of place.” Santana answers and Brittany pictures her smiling again.

“Then let’s make this a telephonic interview. I’ve got a few answers for you that …” Brittany hears a noise coming from her phone.

She had disconnected.

She stands there, staring at the phone in disbelief, then she tears apart a page from her notebook and writes on it Bitch. Under the line, she adds another: Smokes cigars. She’s going to get lungs cancer. I hope soon. Excellent body fitting. 

She deletes the last one until it can’t be read, then she looks at the clock on the microwave. 9:05 pm.

One thing is for sure: she can’t let her win like this.

She’s going to go to Breadstix.

/

She stands in the line to walk over the rod. As soon as the group in front of her had paid, she sneaks in, walking through a labyrinth of bright lights and loud noises.

“You think you can walk in for free?” A low smoky voice yells.

Brittany turns and looks maliciously at the cashier who has tattoos all over his body.

“I’m not here to play, I’m looking for someone.” She says sycophant.

"You wanna walk in? Pay." The guy groans, leaning a hand over the counter. Upon it there's a chart with the prices. She has to pay $15.

She obviously doesn’t have them, but even if she did, she wouldn’t have waste them on making questions to Santana. She gets suddenly mad at the change of seats in her class and especially because it has taken her to drive here. She has to find Santana, then they’re going to come out and complete the schedule.

She hasn’t driven here for nothing.

“If I’m not back in two minutes, I’m going to pay $15.” Brittany says, trying to convince the bouncer. Before she can even think properly, she is doing something she has never thought she could: she lowers and passes under the rod. She starts running around the penny arcade, searching for Santana. She can’t believe what she is doing, but she is running faster and faster anyway. She needs to find Santana and get out of there fast.

She hears the voice of the bouncer who’s calling her out behind her. “Hey! You!”

Santana doesn’t seem to be on this floor so Brittany walks downstairs, following the directions on the wall that lean to the billiards room. At the end of the stairs, she sees some poker tables, all occupied and barely enlightened. The ceiling is low and covered in smoke, dense smoke just like fog that wrapped around her house.

Hidden between the poker tables and the bar, she sees a row of billiards tables and she finally catches Santana who is deliciously bending over the farthest table as she tries a hard hit.

“Santana!” She yells, calling her right when Santana is about to hit the ball. 

The stick hits the fabric and Santana lifts her gaze to look at Brittany. Her gaze is a something between surprise and curiosity.

In the meanwhile, the bouncer has reached for her and has grabbed her shoulder. “Upstairs, now.” 

Santana’s lips arch in a smirk, and Brittany can’t really tell if it’s smugly or friendly. “She’s with me.” It seems to work because the bouncer lets go of her immediately. Before he changes his mind, Brittany slides along the tables.

At the beginning, she’s firm and decided but the closer she gets to Santana, the less sure she gets.

She notices something different about her, even though she isn’t sure about what it is. Maybe she’s smuggest? 

More confident?

Freer to be herself. And these black eyes are staring at her, like two magnets attracted to every move Brittany makes. She swallows, trying to ignore the tip-tap of butterflies flying into her stomach.

She doesn’t know how to explain what’s happening with her, but there’s surely something. Something wrong. Something that is very little … secure.

“I’m sorry about earlier.” Santana says, stepping closer to her. “No signal in here.”

Of course. The most stupid excuse in the world.

Santana nods to her friends to make them go away. There’s a moment of silence, then her friends do as they’re told. One of them hits Brittany’s shoulder as he walks beside her, making her step behind to not lose her balance as she lifts her gaze to meet the ice ones of the other players that are walking by.

Amazing. It’s not really Brittany’s fault if she has homeworks to do about Santana.

“Ball number 8?” She asks, lifting an eyebrow and trying to look at ease. Maybe Santan is right: this isn’t a place for her. That doesn’t mean she’s going to run away though. “What’s the price?”

Santana smile and this time Brittany’s sure that she’s mocking her. “We don’t play for money.” She makes clear.

Brittany puts her bag on the table. “Too bad, I would have bet everything I’ve got against you.” She pulls her papers out of the bag with the two lines she’d already written. “Just a few questions, and then I’ll leave.”

“Bitch?” Santana reads out loud, leant on the stick. “Cancer? What the hell is this supposed to mean? Is this a prediction?”

Brittany takes the paper and starts waving it in the air. “I was just confirming my theory that you personally contribute in destroying the atmosphere. How many cigars have you smoked? One? Two?”

“I don’t smoke.” Santana answers immediately, and she sounds honest, but Brittany decides that she doesn’t believe her anyway.

“Hmmm …” She says, putting the sheet between the ball number 8 and the purple one. She accidently hits the purples one while writing down “Cigars, no doubts”.

“You’re screwing the game.” Santana says, but she doesn’t stop smiling, not even for a moment. Her dark eyes lock into Brittany’s and the girl can’t help but smile back, even though it lasts just for a moment.

“In that case, I hope you were winning. What’s your biggest dream?” She’s proud of the question, because she knows it’s going to be a pain in the ass for Santana.

“Kissing you.” Santana answers immediately.

“That’s not funny.” Brittany answers, looking at her and being thankful to herself for not having stuttered.

“No, it’s not. But I made you blush.” Santana replies. She looks indifferent. Brittany sits on the edge of the table and crosses her legs, using her knee to put the sheet there. “Do you work?” She asks another question.

“Waitress at the Lima Bean,” She answers honestly.

“Religion? Do you believe?”

Santana doesn’t look surprised at the question, but she also winces unhappily. “I thought you said just a few questions. You’ve asked me already.”

“Religion?”

Santana taps her finger on her left cheek. “I wouldn ‘t call it that. I’d call it cult.”

“Are you a holy roller?” Brittany realizes late she sounded surprised, and she shouldn’t.

“Yeah, it seems like we’re going to have to sacrifice a girl. I was planning on attracting her after having won her trust, so you’re ready now …”

Brittany’s smile drops immediately. “You’re not impressing me.” She just answers.

“I didn’t even try.” Santana answers, keeping her usual allusive smirk on her face.

Brittany gets off of the table and goes face to face with her.

“Quinn told me you’re older than us. How many times did you repeat biology? Once? Twice?” She asks directly and with no kindness.

“Quinn Fabray isn’t my spokesperson.” She answers, quoting Brittany’s best friend’s name, like she wants to underline the distance between them.

“Are you denying that you failed a year or more?” Brittany cuts.

“I’m telling you I didn’t go to school last year,” Santana answers provoking, but Brittany only gets more stubborn.

“Didn’t you even attend school?” She keeps on asking.

Santana puts the stick on the table and hooks her index to tell Brittany to move in closer.

Brittany doesn’t move.

“Do you want to know a secret?” Santana whispers. “I’ve never been to school before. Another secret? It’s not as boring as I thought.” Liar. Everybody has to good to school. She’s lying to make Brittany mad, for sure. “You think I’m lying?” She says with a bright smile.

“You’ve never been to school, like, ever? If that’s true and you’re right – but I don’t think so – so what made you change your mind this year?” Brittany crosses her arms to her chest.

“You.” Santana answers and for a moment Brittany is scared. Then she thinks that it is exactly what Santana wants her to feel like. 

That’s why she doesn’t give up and she tries to look annoyed. It takes a moment to gain back the courage and reply. “Nice answer.”

Santana must have stepped towards her somehow because they’re now much closer than Brittany remembered.

“Your eyes, Brittany. Ice eyes, surprisingly irresitible.” Santana explains, tilting her head on the side like she wants to study Brittany from different points of view. “And that lovely mouth of yours …”

Brittany is more worried about the fact that the comments hit her rather than about the words themselves. 

She steps back lightly, walking away from Santana’s now panting breath.

“Enough, I’m leaving.” As soon as Brittany pronounces the words though, she knows she is lying. She needs to reply. She tries to put an order at the thoughts into her head to figure out what she wants to tell her.

Why does she make fun of her like this? Why does she act like Brittany actually did something to deserve this?

“It seems like you know a lot of things about me.” She says eventually. “Even more than you actually should; like you exactly know what to do or what to say to make me uncomfortable.” She tries to imply something, but Santana cuts her immediately.

“Well, that’s not too hard.” And Brittany feels angry.

“So you do this on purpose, don’t you?”

“Do what?”

“Provoke me.”

“Say it again. Provoke me. Your lips become so … provoking when you say that.”

“We’re done; you can go back to your game.” Brittany grabs her stick, the one Santana had leant on the table and she hands it to her, but Santana doesn’t take it.

“I don’t like sitting beside you.” She adds a moment later, gritting her jaw, which is strange because she usually does when she lies. She wonders if she is lying now too. If she is doing it, she’d deserve to slap her own face. “I don’t like you,” She says, trying to sound as convincing as possible, so she points the stick at her.

“I’m happy that the coach made me sit beside you.” Santana replies instead. There’s some sarcasm in her tone, but Brittany doesn’t think there are too many hidden meanings to it.

“I’m trying to change that.” Brittany answers. Judging from Santana’s smirk, she must think this is funny. She leans a hand towards Brittany and before she manages to trail back, Santana puts something off of her hair.

“Piece of paper.” She explains and then lets it fall to the ground with one smooth move. That’s when Brittany notices a mark on her wrist. It’s like a drop of varnish more or less.

“That’s not the best place for a birthmark.” Brittany says, looking annoyed because she has one in the same place on her own skin.

Santana rolls the sleeve of her leather jacket down. “Would you prefer if it were somewhere more intimate?”

“I wouldn’t prefer it anywhere,” Brittany isn’t sure about the way the words came or, so she tries again, “I just don’t care if you have one,” she tries once more, “I don’t care about you birthmark, that’s it.”

“Any more questions?” Santana asks. “Comments?”

“No.” Brittany cuts.

“Then see you at school.” Santana answers.

And while she walks away, Brittany thinks she would want to tell her that they’re definitely not seeing each other ever again, but she doesn’t want to have to bite her tongue twice in one day.

During the night, Brittany is woken up by some noise.

She stays still, her face pressed in the pillow and her body stiffening.

Because of her job, Brittany’s mom goes out of town at least once a month, so Brittany is used to staying alone. And yet, for months now, she thinks she can hear the sound of steps coming from the hall and walking to her room.

She never feels alone. Right after her dad died – they shot him near Lima Heights while he was buying a present for his wife – there’s been a weird presence in her life. It’s like someone orbits around her world and keeps an eye on her.

In the beginning, the presence of the ghost scared her but then, as she realizes nothing bad ever happens, she gets less anxious.

She had started wondering if the things she feels are all part of a cosmic plan. Maybe her dad’s spirit is close.

The thought usually comforts her.

It makes her feel like she isn’t alone, but tonight his different.

The presence she feels is cold as ice.

She turns her head around and sees a shadow on the pavement.

She sits fast and looks to the window, a pale ray of moon passing through the glass.

Nothing.

She holds the pillow tightly and tells to herself that it was probably just a cloud passing by, or a plastic bag carried by the wind. And yet it takes a lot before her heart starts beating regularly again. The only noise she hears is scratching produced by the benches of the trees that move along the walls of her house and the hammering sound into her chest.


End file.
